


leave like the sane abandoned me

by mickthekid



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickthekid/pseuds/mickthekid
Summary: “She’s gonna love heaven,” Ian finally speaks in a whisper. Mickey raises an eyebrow.“You believe in that shit?” he asks.Ian shrugs. “It’s nice to think there’s gonna be something after all this shit, you know. Even if I don’t believe God exists, there might be something to the whole theory about an afterlife.” He shrugs again. “It’s a good thought.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's me again.  
> The title is from "The Sharpest Lives" by My Chemical Romance.

The weather hasn’t been this beautiful in a while. The sun is shining like it's a vacation commercial, the wind is blowing barely enough to notice. There are birds singing in the trees and two dogs are having a barking match in the distance. It’s warm enough not to be wearing a jacket. It’s the perfect scene for a happy day of picnicking at the local park. It's almost impossible how flawless it is.

It's an odd day for a funeral.

The priest is talking, saying his opening words… or are they his closing words? Are there middle words at a funeral? Mickey doesn’t remember, he can’t find it in himself to focus on anything that’s being said. He can still hear the dogs barking and he can focus on the birds twittering, but he cannot focus on the words the priest is saying upon his sister’s coffin. Mickey wants to hit himself.

He feels Ian’s arm around his waist, his hand on his side shaking a little, but his hold is still firm. Mickey’s arms are hanging heavily at his sides, but at some point during the ceremony he’s leaned some of his weight on Ian, he has nothing else to offer right now, as he’s staring at his baby sister’s dark-brown casket.

The people around him are singing something. It sounds like a beautiful song, and Mickey feels more than hears Ian singing along. Ian has a beautiful voice, and Mickey is glad he’s singing to his sister. Even if she can’t hear it.

By the time the coffin is being lowered into the ground and the priest is saying his final words, the wind has grown some strength. The hem of the priest’s robe is dancing in the wind as he says his last blessings. “…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,” the priest finishes, leaving behind a heavy silence. The dogs aren’t barking anymore. Ian isn’t singing, his chin only rests against Mickey’s temple. Someone sniffs. One of Mandy’s friends starts crying. Mickey just stares at the grave.

Around him, people are starting to murmur among themselves. Mickey realizes that he doesn’t know why he invited all these people; they don’t know his sister. Most of them only met her once or twice, and when they did, they never talked to her. They only talked to Iggy, because he was older and always by Terry’s side like the loyal retriever that he isn't. Ian said it was polite to invite every relative, and he did. Less than a third of them bothered to show up. Of course Mickey had known only a few would give a shit, and it doesn’t matter anyway. They’re just another crowd of shithead Milkoviches.

Mickey’s aunt from his mother’s side, Olga, comes over to them. She’s short like her sister was, and her eyes are as blue as Mickey’s. Her hair is dyed red, probably after she noticed the first gray hair in the middle of her dark locks. Despite being in her fifties, she dresses like a twenty-year-old, and Mickey supposes she has the body for that.

Olga greets Mickey in Ukrainian, and when Mickey and Ian both greet her back, she smiles, surprised. “I did not know you speak Ukrainian,” she tells Ian.

“Just know some basics, Mickey’s taught me,” Ian replies with a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

Olga nods in approval. They see each other rarely, though Olga makes sure to attend every celebration and event that counts. The last one before this was Terry’s funeral. Olga had worn a pink dress then. Mickey liked her even more after that.

“You don’t come to the reception,” Olga says, her words carried by an accent Ian finds oddly charming, not a hint of judgement in her eyes. Ian shakes his head, squeezes Mickey’s side briefly.

“It’s a lot, you know,” he says. “Mickey’s super tired, so…”

Olga shakes her head. “You do not have to explain. I understand.” She touches Mickey’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I understand, Mikhailo.”

Mickey nods in response, feeling like he might start weeping like a bitch if he opens his mouth again. Olga pats his cheek once, the rings on her fingers cool against his warm skin, and leaves to go back to the family that’s not hers. Mickey loves her for attending, when almost everyone else is a relative of Terry’s, something that’s bound to cause her trouble. But Olga can stand her ground easier than her sister ever could.

Mickey only barely notices, his eyes on Mandy’s grave once again, when the crowd splits into smaller groups, some of them sweating in their all-black attire as they make their way to the cemetery’s parking lot, ready to head toward the Milkovich house for an afterparty of sorts. Terry always called them afterparties. Even when Mickey’s mother died, the first thing he said after she was buried was: “The afterparty better have some fucking vodka.”

Mickey must have spaced out for a moment, because when Ian pats his back to get his attention, they’re the only ones still by Mandy’s grave. Mickey can’t stop staring.

“Come on,” Ian murmurs softly. “Let’s go home.” His hand on the small of Mickey’s back suddenly feels scorching.

Their apartment is more appropriate to reflect Mickey’s current state of mind. Every window is covered by drapes, the walls and floors dark. The living room is messy, so is the bedroom. They haven't had the energy to clean anything up, especially after spending most of their time at the hospital for the past weeks.

Ian and Mickey get rid of their uncomfortable dress shoes and jackets, and Ian is quick to fetch an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

They end up lying in their bed, lights off, a joint passing from one mouth to another, drinking straight from the bottle every other minute. The ceiling they’re facing is white, but there are some yellow marks spotting across the uneven surface, left by the previous residents. Mickey finds himself counting the marks. There are seventeen, same as last time.

Getting drunk at three in the afternoon is such a Terry move, Mickey would be ashamed if it wasn’t for the light buzz. Ian doesn’t drink, but that’s okay. He’s always going to be the saner one out of the two of them.

“Mandy’s always wanted a winter funeral,” Mickey says to the ceiling. “Said it’d be cool to be buried and frozen in the cold earth or some shit. Crazy bitch,” he laughs. “She was scared she’d wake up, that the doctors would make a mistake and she’d be buried alive. So, she thought, maybe she’d freeze to death ‘fore she woke up. ‘Cause it’d fucking suck to, like, suffocate or, or, be conscious of everything. You know you’ll die in hours, maybe minutes, and there’ll be nobody to hear when you scream bloody fuckin’ murder. She had fuckin’ nightmares about that shit.”

Ian turns his head away from the ceiling to look at Mickey’s profile. He doesn’t know what to say, so he takes the joint from Mickey’s fingers, inhales, and kills it on the ashtray.

Mickey shifts his weight, leans up a little to drink from the bottle again. His eyebrows are drawn together when he sets the bottle aside and lies back down. “Mom died in the winter, you know. And Mandy said,” Mickey rubs his thumb against his bottom lip, “She said, ‘I know I’ll be next.’ She was fuckin’ _sure_ , ‘cause mom hated Terry and she hated Terry, too, and that made sense to ‘er. And then that motherfucker died.” Mickey snorts, shaking his head. “And she told me she wasn’t gonna die, _ever_. ‘Cause Terry wasn’t gonna be there to fuck anything up anymore. Terry wasn’t there to treat her like she was our mom.” Mickey frowns.

Ian worries his lip between his teeth as he watches Mickey’s face, watches as Mickey tries to force down the lump in his throat by swallowing thickly with no success.

“It’s all just shit, ain’t it?” Mickey says, finally turning his head to look at Ian. His voice is wet and his eyes are shining. Ian’s heart breaks all over again.

There’s no good enough response to make it better. Ian wishes there was something, anything, he could do to lift that giant stone off Mickey’s bruised heart. Just anything at all.

“She’s gonna love heaven,” Ian finally speaks in a whisper. Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“You believe in that shit?” he asks.

Ian shrugs. “It’s nice to think there’s gonna be something after all this shit, you know. Even if I don’t believe God exists, there might be something to the whole theory about an afterlife.” He shrugs again. “It’s a good thought.”

“Us Milkoviches, man,” Mickey says, “we’re all on our merry way to hell. It’s a fuckin’ fact. No matter how angelic, each and every one of us is gonna be suckin’ Satan’s red cock before we turn sixty.” He chuckles. “That’s what I’m hopin’ Terry’s doing, anyway.”

Ian’s surprised snort is enough to make Mickey crack a small smile. It doesn’t stay on his face long, but it’s a start. “Pretty gross,” Ian says, shaking his head to get the mental image out of his head.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees when he reaches for his bottle to gulp down another drink again. He protests only for a second when Ian takes the bottle from him and screws the cap on again before he places it on the floor, out of Mickey’s reach.

“S’been a long-ass day,” Mickey says once he’s settled down again. He’s got that somber expression on his face, the look that has something in Ian’s chest drop. “I’m so fucking done,” Mickey adds, sniffing and closing his eyes. Ian stares for a few seconds, just now really realizing how exhausted his boyfriend looks, how drained of everything.

“You wanna sleep for a bit?” Ian asks, but Mickey’s shaking his head before Ian finishes the question.

“Probably couldn’t sleep if I tried. Gonna pass out eventually, though.” Ian hates how weak Mickey’s voice sounds. They’ve been together for years, but Mickey still doesn’t get chocked up often. It’s caught Ian off-guard each time.

When a minute of heavy silence turns into two, Ian rolls over on top of Mickey and presses his chapped lips against Mickey’s trembling ones, soft but sure, enough to make Mickey close his eyes and just know. Ian needs Mickey to know he's got everything laid out for him, whatever Mickey needs, Ian's willing to give him. Ian owes him that much.

Mickey’s shedding silent tears by the time Ian’s buried inside of him, their clothes on the floor and their breaths mixing together. Ian’s lips press kisses to Mickey’s skin, quiet reassurances and promises. All Mickey can do is grab a hold of Ian’s shoulders and let Ian fuck him into the mattress, something he loves even when loving feels like the most difficult task in the world.

And for just a moment, Mickey can forget about the past five days. He can forget about the sight of Mandy in her hospital bed that had become a second home to her over the months. He forgets about the beeping of the heart rate monitor next to Mandy’s bed, how she had looked at him when she told him she felt like _this was the day_. He doesn’t think about how eerily calm she looked, surrounded by white sheets with her head shaved and her smile forced, listening to Ian telling a story in hopes of making her feel better. He doesn’t replay the final hug in his head, doesn't see her close her eyes for the last time.

He forgets how hard he squeezed Ian’s hand when the monitor flat-lined.

Then it’s over and everything comes flooding back in, making his head dizzy and his heart the heaviest it has ever been.

"Ian," Mickey whimpers against Ian's shoulder when Ian makes to move off Mickey. "Holy shit, _Ian_." He repeats himself a couple of times, his eyes widening in disbelief, wet with new tears.

"All right, Mick, I'm right here, hey," Ian soothes. He brushes a couple of teardrops off Mickey's cheeks and kisses him, helpless as Mickey finally lets go.

"Holy fucking shit, fuck, oh my _god_ ," Mickey sobs, fingers pressing into Ian's arms enough to hurt, but Ian doesn't voice any complaints. He manages to tug Mickey against his chest as he lays back into the pillows on the bed. With his hand rubbing circles onto Mickey's back and his lips pressed against the crown of his head, Ian listens with a heavy heart as Mickey lets out everything he's managed to keep locked up in his chest for the past months. It takes everything in Ian to keep from crying himself.

Eventually, Mickey passes out. Ian stays still for a couple of minutes, takes a moment to admire Mickey's relaxed, tear-stained face. He doesn't think he's seen Mickey look so calm in weeks, and that adds a whole new layer of sorrow to his mind. Once he's sure Mickey isn't going to wake up for a while, he pulls the blankets over Mickey's compliant body and silently makes his way to the bathroom.

Ian's screamed and cried himself to the point of exhaustion countless times during the past week, but this is, without a shadow of a doubt, the hardest he's wept in years.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts!


End file.
